


Where the roses grow

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Established Relationship, Healing, M/M, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of torture and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 00:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: Unexpectedly, autumn nights brought a new sense of joy under their wing. It took nearly a year of intensive care and rehabilitation for Graves to go back home after Credence, Theseus and a team of Aurors found him bathing in his own blood.





	Where the roses grow

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting my tumblr fanfictions here.

* * *

 

Unexpectedly, autumn nights brought a new sense of joy under their wing.

It took nearly a year of intensive care and rehabilitation for Graves to go back home after Credence, Theseus and a team of Aurors found him bathing in his own blood.

He came back under the shade of short, golden-stricken evenings, and could eventually spend them without worrying, without seeing the tubes stapled to his own nose, full of oxygen, while metallic needles poured antidotes in his veins; new nights to simply appreciate the honey of twilights and the fireflies pushing through the fake heat of wood burning up in the fireplace once he was able to go back home with Credence holding his hands, Graves feeling each and every scar running along his boy’s palm.

Credence, his Credence,  _his, his, his,_ and the pink tinge spreading over his neck as a sole witness to the Obscurus trying to rip him open, not to hurt him but to protect its host; this scar he always covers up with scarves and hands and fingers used as an umbrella, something Graves is slowly making him unlearn when Credence is spread out naked and vulnerable beneath him—

“You’re beautiful and shouldn’t hide,” he tells him; and Credence’s expressive whiskey eyes shine with embarrassment and soft delight at the wording. His cheeks are blood flowers whose petals fade and scatter in the empty air; a quiet released spirit, now etherized, but he still manages a quirky, “says the man who can’t stop hiding  _himself_?”, a smirk dancing along the crevices of his lips as he pulls Percival toward him and kisses him again, full and bold and passionate in the artificial yellow light of their bedroom. Their bare skins touch, and Percival feels like he can’t contain himself, can’t hold back all that he keeps inside, all the years of pain and centuries of tragedy.

And when Credence is asleep against his chest and snoring without a care in the world, Graves can’t help chuckling; a reminder, but softer, tender, of his boy full of resilience and so strong-willed for him. His Credence asleep in the weirdest and most uncomfortable positions against him in Graves’ hospital bed so they could always be close and never apart, never moving away for too long and pressing quiet kisses to Graves’ beestung lips.

There are also days where Credence has to coax Graves out of the mute shell of armor he put on after being tortured by Grindelwald; that armor of unspoken words and unshed tears, of ravaging copper scars and barely working fingers that were crushed and twisted to the bone until there was only skeleton dust left in their wake. Magic could tend to them and help rehabilitation, but in the end, it has ended up being about Credence pushing the older man to do exercises, to move them up and down and right and left, his own scarred fingers cradling the other man’s in his to guide them.

“Like this,” Credence murmurs gently as he sketches circles with Graves’ finger, and Graves draws in a sharp breath;  _pain_. Pain always and forever and he’s already so sick of it. Everything feels heavy with exhaustion.

“I can’t—” he starts pitifully, resigned, but the younger man keeps his hold on his hand, presses it to his own cheek. Percival’s thumbs brush over Credence’s cheekbones, fingers curling automatically. That, he hasn’t forgotten.

He hasn’t forgotten how to love with touches.

“You can.  _Of course you can,_  Percival. What do you think petals become after they fall?”

The hint of a smile blooms there; an altar of genuine joy.

 _He trusts me enough to go on?_ Graves asks himself, as if he were unsure this was something he could have until now— something he  _can_  have. He’s not exactly used to being this fragile with other people, but he figures that Credence— Credence is a treasure and everything good he still has along with Theseus and his cat.

Percival shrugs, looking the other way. “I don’t know. They get walked upon and die a sorry life?”

Credence rolls his eyes. “Good Lord, I forgot you had  _next to zero imagination and poetry_ running in your Irish blood,” and he grins before it melts into softness. “They curl up and get carried away to become one with soil.”

“I am not sure I am following you, baby,” Graves winces with an eyebrow raised in interrogation.

“Life happens. You have dust in place of your fingers, however nothing can prevent it from curling up into bone again. It’s a circle.”

“When did you become so well-versed in philosophy? Is it Theseus who taught you all these things while I was— gone?”  _Deflect. Deflect—_  but it doesn’t work. His voice sounds like he has been screaming for hours on end.

Credence smiles at that, just a hint of shadows hiding it for a bit because of the deathly reminder of disappearance and torture; runs his hand through his hair, brushing away the salt and pepper strands from his forehead. “Anger makes you reflect, I guess.”

He leans in, kisses the skin under Percival’s ear. “Love, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ angryzilla or on twitter @ spreadtheashes.


End file.
